The Send Off
by springburn
Summary: Fic prompt from Petersgal. Follows directly from Forgive and Forget.


This prompt fill has set a precedent, for maudlin subject matter...so I promise, more light hearted stuff to come...thank you petersgal...my prompt-meister! She said..."So,back to malcolm,i warn you i will be asking for another doctor soon though :)..but seen as your busy with him right now, its got to be malcolm again...Its ollies funeral and even though malcolm doesnt want to go he is pursuaded by sam, dosac crew past and present are there,leave it with you then..."

This follows on directly from 'Forgive and Forget', and the two prompts are linked. I love to write Malcolm...but no more sadness for a while...I promise!

THE SEND OFF.

Malcolm was nervous. Sam could tell.

His face was set. Stern. That little muscle in his jaw working.  
His dark charcoal grey Paul Smith suit. Crisp white shirt. Black tie.  
Fingers fiddling unconsciously with the knot.  
He still looked impossibly handsome. The suit hung so well on his lean frame.  
Sam refrained from admiring him, and went back to pinning up her hair.  
Smoothed her black linen dress. Took the edge off a little, with a lighter scarf.  
Pushed her feet into low heels.  
"Ready?"  
"As I'll ever be."  
He took a deep breath, let it out.  
"It'll be fine Malcolm. You'll be fine."  
"I haven't seen most of those tossers since I left. 'Spect they'll all be there."  
"The civil service out will be out in force. Course they'll all be there, they won't want to pass up a free bar."  
"Being married to me has made you cynical, Sam."  
"Rubbish. Most of them are toadies. He was a toady himself, and not a very nice one, most of the time, remember."  
Malcolm sighed.  
"I forgave him though, Sam. Let sleeping dogs...eh?"  
"Okay!...Right...come on then. Once more into the breach, prepare yourself for a few hours of gross hypocrisy, as they all say how sadly he'll be missed."

Malcolm drove them.  
The crematorium was huge. A wide open space. Like being in the country, but in the Capital.  
As predicted, Whitehall was represented en masse.  
Glenn and Jamie, were, of course, allies. Knew all that Malcolm had been through. Greeted him and Sam with handshakes and hugs.  
But this day wasn't about him.  
It was about Oliver Reeder.

Inside it was cool. Restful.  
The place was filling up.  
Terri Coverley was seated with Robyn, like Tweedledum and Tweedledee, both eagerly glancing around them, looking for familiar faces. He saw them nudge each other and point excitedly, as he and Sam entered.  
"My God, he looks younger!" He heard Robyn say, none too discreetly.  
"And not nearly so angry." Terri whispered in reply.  
Malcolm ignored them.  
His hand gently on the small of his wife's back, as he guided her into a pew.  
He was surprised to see Dan Miller, and Nicola Murray, speaking together in hushed tones.  
He acknowledged them both with a cursory nod.  
Helen Hately was sniffing into a tissue...  
Christ! Malcolm thought...he'd imagined nothing stronger than Global Warming would melt her ice heart.  
The incidental music, tinnily playing over the Sonos system, was music from the Star Wars films.  
Malcolm found it hard to suppress a smile.  
Among several personal bequests, Ollie had left him the film Box Set.  
He'd appreciated the humour.  
Glancing around him, he guessed a row of similar aged 'chaps' were Ollie's 'Oxbridge' fraternity from his Cambridge days.  
He scowled, none had been near him during his illness.  
Fair weather friends.  
Heads turned, as more people entered.  
Ben Swain, holding the arm of Emma Messenger.  
Sam leaned into her husband's shoulder..."she's got a nerve, turning up now." She hissed.  
Seeing Mr and Mrs Tucker, Emma blushed scarlet, hurriedly sitting herself down and fumbling pointlessly in her handbag.

The letter he'd received on the death of his former colleague, had both surprised and shocked Malcolm. It was true he'd been into the Hospice to see him. Made his peace.  
And despite Ollie saying he did not wish to repeat the experience, Malcolm had been back to visit him several times.  
The two men had reached an understanding. Hatchets had been buried...and not in each other's heads!  
Apparently he'd planned his funeral and wake, down to the last letter. Chosen the music, readings, everything. He wanted a eulogy and he wanted Malcolm to give it.  
Fuck!

He'd spent a great deal of time and effort over it.

Read it through to himself. Then out loud.

Refused to read it to Sam, wanted its first outing to be on the day.

And here they were. It was time...now.

The strains of 'Drive' by The Cars, faded. (A favourite, apparently)

Malcolm relinquished Sam's hand, which he'd been holding tightly, and stood up. Pulling the knot of his tie again. He eased himself sideways out of the pew.

Walked purposefully down to the lectern. He felt all eyes were fastened on his back.

He took his place, then raised his eyes and scanned the congregation.

Every face was turned his way.

He cleared his throat and began...

"I'm standing here before you today because Ollie asked me to, as a friend.

That in itself may come as a shock to some of you...

Yes... I see that it does.

I think it was his way of exacting the ultimate revenge.

I didn't know him in his younger days. Regrettably there's no family here to tell you about his first bicycle ride or how he looked in his Cubs uniform.

I'm sure the bunch of terribly well heeled guys in the fourth row there, have many anecdotes they'll share with us later, of his Poxbridge days, when he was busy choking on his silver spoon at Cambridge! But that's not my area.

Ollie said he didn't want tragedy, he wanted humour.

I'm going to take him at his word.

So.

He was...

Fuck Bob Shit Pants. The Beige Power Ranger. Harry Potter. Andy Pandy, the Quentin Blake illustration.

Some of the many epithets I've given Oliver Reeder in the past. There were others, much more inventive, but modesty forbids me...

I knew him from the time he joined us at DoSAC, all those years ago, when he first became the bane of my life.

He received so many bollockings from me over the years that I'm sure he grew to hate me. But as someone once said...I forget who...'hate is too strong an emotion to waste on someone you don't like.'

He told me recently that the result of those bollockings was to push him to work harder and be better at his job, so it's not all bad.

It's a testament to his toughness of character that he didn't buckle under the pressure, like so many others did, but kept at it, kept working and carried on.

He was easy going, tenacious and ambitious. And he got where he wanted to go.

Sure he made mistakes, we all have, in our lives. How many of us could stand up and say we hadn't? But he did his best to make amends and proved in the end that he had integrity and compassion and a willingness to confront the past.

That takes strength and courage.

The same strength and courage with which he faced this bastard of an illness.

The illness that robed him of his life way before his time.

It's too late for regrets. We can't turn back the clock. But we can celebrate his life, give thanks for our own and raise a glass to him.

With this in mind he's hired out the top floor of the National Gallery.

It's his wish that we all go there, have some food and drink on him. Celebrate our own lives, be thankful and remember him.

So I hope you all will.

I'll finish with a piece by Leo Marks, which I think is appropriate...

The Life That I Have

The life that I have  
Is all that I have  
And the life that I have  
Is yours

The love that I have  
Of the life that I have  
Is yours and yours and yours.

A sleep I shall have  
A rest I shall have  
Yet death will be but a pause  
For the peace of my years  
In the long green grass  
Will be yours and yours and yours.

Thank you.

The silence that reigned, as Malcolm left the lectern to return to his seat, was palpable.

Then came a sound.

One person applauding.

Others joined in, and by the time Malcolm reached the pew, where Sam was sitting, everyone was clapping.

Sam put her arms around her husband's neck, pulled him down into a hug. Kissed his cheek, and dabbed her eyes.

"That was perfect Malcolm. I love you." She whispered, into his ear.

He sat down quickly, to hide his embarrassment.

Glenn Cullen leaned over, squeezed his shoulder.

"Did him proud, mate, did him proud."

The service ended, and one by one they filed out into the glorious sunshine.

Malcolm, looked down at Sam, her eyes still shining with admiration.

Yes. He had a lot to be thankful for.

He was glad to be alive.


End file.
